


Blooming Love

by filamero



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Hanahaki Disease, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, I am so sorry, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Jealousy, M/M, Please bare with me, Sad Ending, Sad Floris | Fundy, Unrequited Love, i am taking creative liberties, i kinda also bend the rules of hanahaki in this so, this ship is literally incapable of no angst, yeah so uh i kinda kill fundy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27848082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filamero/pseuds/filamero
Summary: In which Fundy realizes that his relationship with Dream might not be as mutual as he thought it was.  Though, the realization sorta...came a little too late for his comfort.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Floris | Fundy, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 504





	1. Loved Too Much, Got Too Little

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quixgobrrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixgobrrr/gifts).



> i really tried not to write angst for fwt. i really did. 
> 
> also hi dani, i actually wasn't going to write this but i got inspo from that art you drew in discord [: <3

Fundy wasn’t quite sure when he fell in love with Dream. It’s not like he minded, though. Love was something beautiful. It could bloom in the most unexpected places and for the most unexpected people—and he knew a thing or two about it being unexpected; Dream was originally his enemy for Prime’s sake. 

But somewhere along the lines, his heart started fluttering in adoration instead of speeding up out of fear. He started craving for his touch instead of flinching away from it. Never once did he think that he would be able to see what was underneath the white mask that formerly invoked panic with its eerily simple smile. To be able to see those absolutely mesmerizing jade eyes, sparkling brighter than any gem that he’s ever seen. To attempt to count just how many freckles he had sprinkled across his face and try his best to kiss each and every one. To witness his smile in its full glory—his slightly wonky smile, where one corner of his lips would turn up a little higher than the other. 

God, Fundy’s love for Dream bloomed ever-so-wonderfully…

...in his lungs.

And it was killing him.

It grew as bright pink peonies and deep blue cornflowers in his airways and veins, numbing his senses and stunting his breathing in all the wrong ways. It grew as little rosebuds on the surface of his skin whenever Dream touched him—and they always seemed to vie for the man’s fingers too, as if he were the sun that they needed to grow. (He probably was. Fundy knew that his blood was their water, so it would only make sense, wouldn’t it?) It curled around his limbs and neck in the form of vines and tendrils, restricting his movement and squeezing his chest a little too hard for his liking. Dandelions scratched at his throat in the middle of the night, alliums itched the back of his mouth in broad daylight, the stupid flowers bothered him in every way possible at any given time in the day.

But the worst part was that Fundy didn’t want to believe it.

He still had complete and uttermost faith that Dream loved him back, even if the proof was literally sucking the life right out of him.

Niki would look at him with pity in her eyes, concern written all over her face whenever she saw him. “Are you feeling well?” she would ask, studying the way Fundy thinned in such little time. She would gesture in the direction of her bakery, taking his hand—his unnaturally cold, shaking hand—saying that she baked an extra batch of his favorite sweets. And he would always shake her off and give her a smile, telling her that he was simply feeling under the weather. 

Niki would go silent, and Fundy knew that she didn’t believe him at all. But he never gave her enough time to truly question him, making up some excuse of needing to go help Tubbo with his presidential duties. “He’s still a kid, y’know?” he would chuckle before scampering off a little too quickly for it to be considered just walking.

(He didn’t notice Tubbo coming up the path, dressed in his casual clothes and greeting Niki with a bright smile. He didn’t hear him saying that he was taking the day off before he disappeared off into the streets of New L’manburg.)

And it only got worse.

With each passing day, the lilacs piling up in his lungs only grew larger and impossibly beautiful—at the cost of becoming more deadly. Daisies grew whenever Dream would smile in Fundy’s direction and his heart would betray his mind by still skipping a beat. Roses grew whenever he would let out one of his stupid vacuum-like laughs, and he couldn’t help but giggle along because of his fiance’s hysteria. Lilies grew whenever they locked eyes, even if but for a few seconds, sending his mind into a flurry of thoughts as he tried to pull himself out of the emerald ocean he trapped himself in. All sorts of flowers grew whenever they were together, he would hold his hands, and tell him that nothing else mattered more than he did.

But Fundy knew he was lying. 

He would have to be blind if he didn’t see the way Dream’s smile seemed a little brighter whenever he was with George. He would tell himself it was just because they were best friends. (Was that really all that it was, though?) He would purposely turn a cheek whenever Sapnap would joke about cuddling and kissing Dream whenever he wanted. Friends were allowed to be affectionate with each other. That’s all it had to be. (Yet, it didn’t stop Fundy’s bed feeling a little too spacey that night.) He would laugh along whenever Karl joked about dumping Sapnap and Quackity to run off with Dream. It was just a joke, he didn’t have to be jealous. (But he was.)

He would have to be stupid to realize that he wasn’t the only one to have a hold on Dream’s heart. 

“George is going to love these,” Dream grinned to himself as he carefully thumbed one of the petals of the flowers he held.

Flowers. Ironic.

“Why George?” Fundy responded, trying to keep his voice lighthearted. It didn’t come out that way at all, and instead of coming out as the joke he intended it to be, it sounded more like the desperation he was so desperately trying to fight off.

Dream paused, looking up for a moment. Almost as if he forgot Fundy were there. How sweet. “Oh, uh, no, I meant you,” he quickly stammered, spinning on his heel to face Fundy fully. He held the bouquet out to him with a smile, taking one of Fundy’s hands in his own to place it in his possession. 

(Fundy silently wondered if the bouquet was what his lungs looked like.)

“Misspoke,” Dream added on for extra measure, using his now-free hand to take Fundy’s other one and press a gentle kiss against his knuckles.

And that night, as Fundy begrudgingly put the flowers into a vase, he couldn’t help but think how unfair it was.

How unfair was it that Dream still managed to steal his breath away? Even with the orchids taking up most of the space in his lungs, barely leaving room for him to breathe in more? How unfair was it that Dream still made him feel giddy and excited? Even when his fatigue and growing weakness made it infinitely harder for him to smile and laugh? How unfair was it that his blood still tried to rush to his cheeks in a blush whenever Dream complimented him? Even through the tulip petals in his veins kept it from flowing to the rest of his body?

How unfair was it that even after seeing every little thing that proved Dream didn’t love him the way he did, hearing everyone ridicule and express disbelief in his engagement, watching their relationship chip down little by little with each passing minute, barely grasping at the straws of life as it got harder and harder to breathe...he loved Dream.

He really still loved Dream.

Even if it was literally killing him.

And as he woke up in the middle of the night to the feeling of being strangled, gripping his sheets and gasping desperately for air, eyes watering as his vision slowly clouded over and he felt his body growing weaker and weaker, he accepted his fate. He didn’t mind the price that he had to pay.

Why?

Because he knew that he would rather be dead from loving someone that much.

Than to never have loved at all.


	2. Gave Too Little, Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream deals with the consequences of his actions. It's controlling him more than he likes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello so i was convinced into making a second part [:

“Why George?”

The words echoed in Dream’s head, keeping him awake. He pursed his lips lightly as his eyes snapped open and sat up. He wasn’t blind; he could see just how much Fundy adored him in every way possible. The way the fox’s face would brighten up instantly the moment he would come into view. He could see it, and whenever he did, an ice-cold feeling would settle in his gut. It would crawl up and out into his veins, freezing his limbs and leaving him to find solace in nothing but the large, green hoodie that he always wore. 

Guilt. That feeling was guilt.

Everything Dream’s ever known was war. From the moment Wilbur opposed him in the first war to when Schlatt dangled news of his engagement over his head in the most recent war, not a single problem that he’s been in was ever solved peacefully; there was always some sort of battle. He’s never gotten the chance to sit back, relax, and breathe. Just breathe, and not have to worry about anything else.

And while Fundy was a breath of fresh air, he never gave him the break that he needed.

Don’t get him wrong—he cared. He cared deeply for Fundy. He might’ve played coy at first, refusing to entertain his ‘delusions’ of winning him over by going on a movie date. But Fundy had been persistent and beat Dream in that battle of will, and he found himself going on a date with him. It was...a lot nicer than he thought. One date turned into two, two into three, and suddenly he was sneaking out of his house at midnight just to get to Fundy’s base and spend the night. It was hard to wipe a smile off of his face whenever he was with him. His sides always hurt from laughing way too hard at the smallest of things. His skin buzzed with energy at every touch and kiss, instantly craving for more.

It was addicting.

Dream needed to kick the habit before it got too bad. Before too many people would find out, and he would have to worry about Fundy’s wellbeing just as much as he had to look out for his own. His experience with Schlatt dangling his engagement just out of his reach, only lowering it in his range when his arms got tired of reaching up.

He needed to end things with Fundy.

But he didn’t know how.

The words ‘We need to talk,’ constantly danced on his tongue, pirouetting closer and closer to the tip—yet it would never truly fall off, the skilled dancer it was. That ice-cold feeling would crawl up his throat and seize his tongue, fogging up his senses and rendering himself speechless. It sounded so much easier than it was. In his head, all he had to do was talk to Fundy and let him down as gently as he possibly could’ve, and that was that. 

But he couldn’t do just that. 

It was hard, looking into Fundy’s shining eyes and knowing that what you’re going to say is going to diminish that shine in seconds. Pulling your hand away from the warm embrace it wanted. Abandoning something that was so beautiful because you wanted it to be safe.

Dream couldn’t do it.

And instead, he distanced himself from Fundy.

Dodged every question that he possibly could’ve, avoided him at every turn that allowed it, tried to pretend that Fundy never existed in his life and he never existed in his. That was easier. All he had to do was joke around with George, play around with Sapnap, laugh alongside Karl—ignoring the pair of eyes that burned into the back of his head and the icy flowers blooming from the tips of his fingers that stole away his warmth.

It was easy.

Until he was forced to see Fundy dead.

Because of him.

Tiny little daisies sprouted up from underneath Fundy’s orange hair, reminding Dream of the flower crowns that he taught him how to make when they spent the night underneath the stars in the field. (He would’ve thought it was one of those too, if not for the crimson tint on the ends of the silky white petals). Luscious, green vines curled around his neck, its tendrils twisting into an almost beautifully cruel necklace that no doubt cut off Fundy’s air moments before he died. Faint tear tracks marked his cheeks, and it made Dream wonder how long ago did he choke if those trails were still visible. A bouquet of flowers—peonies, cornflowers, orchids, every flower that Dream could possibly name—spilled past Fundy’s lips, its stem rooted firmly in his mouth, throat, and lungs.

And yet, when Niki pulled out her dagger and gently cut the flowers away, Dream caught sight of what looked like the ghost of a smile on Fundy’s face.

It made him want to puke.

But instead of bile rising up his throat, a frosty glaze did, freezing Dream from the inside out. The sharp edges dug into his skin, though never enough to pierce through and reveal itself. It stabbed itself into his ankles and knees, forcing him to crumble down to the floor. It poked at his lungs, and suddenly, it got harder to breathe.

Breathe. Ironic.

It felt like a million needles were pressing into his skin from within, threatening to sew through him the way Fundy sewed his hoodie back together. His mind numbed over and his ears clogged, barely registering anything around him. 

Niki kneeled beside him, pressing her hand against his forehead. Dream was able to vaguely make out her lips, reading something about ‘burning up’ and ‘get you home,’ before he felt the frozen shards poking at the sides of his eyes. Wanting the stinging pain to go away, he closed them. It still burned. 

Dream awoke buried underneath his covers. 

For a moment, he wanted to believe that it was all some strange nightmare, and he would walk into New L’manburg to see Fundy walking alongside Ranboo to their new ice cream shop. But as he glanced to his side, being met with a small container of soup and helping of bread on his bedside table, his heart sank. 

It was real.

Fundy was dead.

Because of him.

Dream wasn’t stupid. He knew what those flowers meant. He’s heard of it before, knowing that only the most hopeless of souls were infected by the fatal disease. His gut wrenched as he kicked the quilt off, his head spinning in protest at how quickly he was moving. 

He should’ve broken things off. 

But instead, he led Fundy down a spiraling rabbit hole of hopelessness, and while Dream managed to grab hold of leverage before he fell through completely, Fundy suffered a much different fate.

And as they had a million times before, icy sensations burst from the pits of his stomach, creeping up the walls and up his chest to the rest of his body. 

Fundy was dead because he cared too much. He cared too much to fully let him go, to give him a chance at life instead of trapping him in his own mind that he didn’t love him. Even after his attempts at pushing him away, he held him too closely, acting as fertilizer to the flowers that rooted themselves in his blood. His cowardice in their love was a gun, his finger on the trigger, and Fundy just so happened to like the taste of metal. And in Dream’s attempt to ease the weapon out of his mouth, he fired it instead.

Now, he’d have to live with knowing that. 

His hands shook—though he wasn’t sure whether it was out of anxiety or the abnormally chilly atmosphere of his room—as he tied his mask to his face, not bothering to look at himself in the mirror.

Monster.

He was a monster.

Dream was out of it the rest of the day—and what better day to be in such a state than an important meeting over the potential exile of Tommy. Guilt’s ice-cold grip held his throat, scratching against his vocal cords and preventing him from talking without feeling like icicles were stabbing him in the throat. Tubbo and Quackity didn’t seem to notice his out-of-place silence, taking it as easy compliance in the meeting instead. Hell, even Tommy fell for the ruse, chalking it down as his obnoxious confidence in himself.

His eyes couldn’t help but land on the empty chair that would’ve been where Fundy sat. Where he would’ve purposely ignored to look at in fear of catching his golden-brown eyes, and he would find himself trying to stop his heart from fluttering in order to keep them a secret. 

Why hadn’t they cancelled the meeting?

When one of their cabinet members had died just the day before?

Dream bit his tongue to keep from asking.

He was more lenient with negotiations, mindlessly bending easily to New L’manburg’s rules. One moment, he was sitting in the meeting room, leg bouncing anxiously. The next, he was getting pushed towards the obsidian walls he erected weeks before, pickaxe in hand. He mined away, trying his best to tune out the Quackity’s boisterous laughter and Tommy’s mocking words.

Holding Spirit over his head.

As if that was what he cared about.

Dream clenched his teeth, white-hot fury slowly bubbling up in the pits of his stomach as Tommy continued to poke at him. Carelessly throwing around Spirit’s name as if that was the leverage they had over him.

No.

They lost their leverage over him without even having to lift a finger.

He did that all on his own.

In a sudden burst of energy and anger, Dream whipped around to face Tommy, standing at his full height. “Tommy, listen,” he seethed, voice sounding completely normal despite the ice pricks he felt scratching at his throat. “You fucked up this time.”

Tommy’s smug expression melted away instantly, face contorting into one of confusion. “Woah, Dream,” he laughed sheepishly, holding his hands and taking an unsure step back. “Calm down, my friend—“

“No, no, no.” Dream’s lips curled up into a cold, unforgiving grin. “I don’t give a fuck about Spirit. I don’t give a fuck about anything, actually.”

That was a lie. He did.

Fundy’s face popped into his head. His cute little smile that would give Dream butterflies whenever he saw it. His soft orange hair that he spent nights combing his hands through it. His fluffy tail that he would cover the both of them up in whenever it got too cold for their comfort. 

“I care about your disks. I care more about your disks than you do. That’s the only thing I care about on this server, actually.”

All he cared about were the disks, right?

He wouldn’t have to worry if the disks were eating well every day.

He wouldn’t have to worry about the disks’ safety when they were fighting against each other in a wat.

He wouldn’t have to be forced to live with the knowledge that his love—or lack thereof—is the reason disks died.

Dream ignored the glaze seizing his throat, making it more and more painful to talk as he made his stance clear. No one was to sneak outside of the walls. (The way he snuck into Fundy’s base all those nights.) No trade. (The way he and Fundy would exchange random trinkets they collected throughout the weeks.) No armor. (The way he never wore a mask when it was just him and Fundy.) Or else they would get slaughtered inside. (The way Fundy was left at the mercy of their love.)

“L’manburg can be independent,” Dream murmured, but it was heard clearly amongst them because of the thunderous silence that settled in the atmosphere. (He thought of Fundy fighting for L’manburg’s independence.) “But L’manburg can’t be free.”

Dream walked off, leaving a trail of shock in his wake.

George and Sapnap came to check on him. Asking if he really meant his words. 

Dream looked them in the eyes.

George’s glasses were embedded into the skin around his eyes, accented by crimson blood dripping down from where plastic met flesh and leaving a tear-like trail in its trace. Arrowheads stuck out of his chest, as if they flew cleanly through his torso without issue. Sapnap’s normally tanned skin had faded into a charcoal gray, with little bits and pieces dusted away to reveal clean bones. Half of his face was nearly gone, the dead skin clinging ever-so-slightly to his skull. Dream blinked, and his friends were back to normal.

But he wasn’t going to take his chances.

He dethroned George, calling him names as he reinstated Eret as king. He barely gave Sapnap a second glance as if he weren’t important to him. He threw a match onto the already thinning thread connecting him to his friends, scorching the webs of connections he had. 

Dream was alone.

He had no one to care about.

Good.

No one could get hurt this way.

No one had to die this way.

And as he curled up underneath his covers that night, imagining the quilt to be someone else instead, nuzzling his face into his and claiming that he wanted to kiss every single freckle on his face, Dream couldn’t help but wonder why it was so cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanted to leave this here that no, dream is not actually getting overtaken by ice
> 
> it's just his mind becoming warped beyond function and low(high)key hallucinating—think of winter from the lunar chronicles, if you know who that is :)


	3. Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After weeks of budding, roses finally bloom. With big blossoms of deep scarlet color, unlike any other flower that anyone's ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so...idk i just wanted to give this an ending of some sorts
> 
> severely unedited as i am writing this in a car and on the verge of falling asleep, my apologies for slip-ups in grammar, details, or spelling !!

Dream was tired of crying.

Too familiar was he with the gentle trickle of water from his eyes down his face, nurturing the budding flowers that were invisible to everyone’s eyes but his own. He hated being alone, yet he continued to push everyone away as if no one meant anything to him. Committing atrocity after atrocity, shaping himself into a figure that not even a mother could love. His freckled skin was pricked with thorns, a threat to anyone who dared try come near him after he spent so long sheltering himself away from everyone.

He sank into the snow that he sat atop, willing for it to swallow him whole and relieve him of all the pressure, the worries, the guilt that built up in his gut over the days. Raspiness clawed at his throat, and his hunger attempted to seize his mind—yet he never gave in. The blood-red roses that rooted themselves in his heart spiraled out to the rest of his body, pressing against his skin from the inside out but never truly breaking free. 

Dream’s flowers were nothing like Fundy’s. While the latter’s slowly killed him, ate away at his life force until they were the only ones that remained, Dream’s kept him alive. The stems and leaves weaved their way into his bones and flesh, acting as his muscles when he wanted nothing more than to collapse from his mental and physical exhaustion. Their thorns pricked at the corners of his eyes, forcing him to keep them open during the times that he wanted to shut them, and possibly never awaken. Their scarlet petals bloomed underneath his cheeks and nose, giving him a lively flush that served as a painful reminder that he was still alive.

He was still alive. Even after not eating, not drinking, not sleeping—he was still living and breathing. 

How had he not realized just how much he cared, how much he worried, how much he loved Fundy until he was gone? Far beyond his reach, bright smile out of sight, leaving him to his own demons?

Warm tears welled up in his eyes at the thought once more, biting down on his lip to keep from making any noise.

Had Fundy been alive, he wondered: What would’ve been different?

Dream slipped the glove off of his left hand, the icy air around him biting at his flesh, yet he ignored it. His thumb instinctively went to brush against the cooling metal of his engagement ring, a lump forming in his throat. They were supposed to be married by now, or, at the very least, preparing for said wedding. Rescheduled again and again because of conflicts and wore that tore across the lands that they once called home. He was never one for huge parties, but he had a feeling that the wedding would’ve been grand. With the most beautiful of flowers—hah, flowers—from Niki and Puffy’s shop and the most boisterous of guests from all ends of the country to create what would’ve probably been one of the best—if not the best—nights of their lives. 

He figured he would’ve been a nicer, better person. He was no stranger to making mistakes, to committing crimes against those he cared about. There were nights when he saw himself as unforgivable, to simply play into the role of ‘villain’ that he had been assigned by the people around him. To become the monster that nearly everyone saw him as, because if they couldn’t bother to let him in their hearts, why would he let them into his? Fundy would always seem to know when those nights happened, tossing pebble after pebble at his window until Dream reluctantly let him in. He would hold him close, being harsh and stern all the same with him. Telling him that yes, there was a reason as to why people thought he was just as wicked as the devil, but no, there was no need for him to cave in to his thoughts and become exactly as they predicted. Bile rose up in Dream’s throat at the memory, realizing that the moment Fundy—his anchor—was gone, he had done exactly that.

His tears felt raw on his face, streaking down in warm rivers against the frosty air. His nails dug into his skin, thorns against the soft flesh, tugging him out of his thoughts and back to reality. The unforgiving reality, where he had driven himself so far into the rabbit hole that he didn’t know which way was up or down, in or out, or if there were an escape at all and he would be forever doomed to be stuck in it. 

His hands shook as he brought them up to his face, wiping at the dampness of his face. It made no difference, for when one round was gone, another wave soon came to replace it. Frustration built up in the back of his mind, his fingers curling into fists as he gripped the sides of his head and pulled at his hair. 

How had he ended up here?

When did he become so caged in the labyrinth of his mind, where left looked like right, when the floor was identical to the ceiling, and he had no idea where he stood?

Dream didn’t realize that he had started hitting himself until he felt something—someone stop his fist from colliding with the side of his head. The grip was gentle and warm, as if the smallest amount of pressure would cause him to shatter into a million pieces. It left him for a moment, leaving him reeling at the loss, until it came back to cup his face carefully. Padded thumbs ran across his cheeks, wiping off the tears that Dream himself couldn’t rid of. 

He opened his eyes, deep forest meeting sweet honey caramel.

Fundy.

His hands came up shakily to rest atop his, a pathetic whimper involuntarily slipping past his lips. Dream had so much to say and nothing to say at all, leaning into the touch that he missed dearly. “I’m sorry,” he croaked softly, his own voice unrecognizable to his own ears. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, over and over, until he was sure that it was the only words that he knew.

And through his tears, Fundy only smiled, pulling him closer and threading his hands through Dream’s unruly hair, combing through the tangles that he never bothered to fix. It hurt, but nothing was comparable to the way the flowers within him wept and grew, finally bursting out of his skin and curling around his limbs. The stems were adorned with thorns, yet not a single one ever dared pierce through his or Fundy’s skin. They bent away and dulled, at the mercy of the very same love that originally seeded them in his heart. Tears flowed freely from his eyes, watering the roses that burst up from his blood, as if he were both Aphrodite and Adonis in the tales that he read so long ago.

Dream felt Fundy press his lips against his forehead in a gentle, chaste kiss, whispering, “Come with me.” 

The offer was tempting, oh-so-tempting, and Dream’s resolve was weak, too weak.

Dream wrapped his hands around Fundy’s neck, leaning up and pressing a long-overdue kiss to his lips. Fundy, in turn, melted into it, bringing his arms to rest at Dream’s waist and carefully lift him up to his feet. For once, the wind didn’t feel freezing as it blew past Dream’s figure, the sun didn’t feel unbearably bright against his skin, and his heart surged with a warmth that could only mean that he was finally, finally back home.

Ranboo found Dream the next day, dead and cold in the midst of the snow that served as his temporary coffin. Yet as he carefully inched close, he couldn’t help but make out the ghost of a smile on his face, wondering how the notoriously emotionless and power-hungry man was able to accept death with no qualms.

Or where the big and beautiful bushes of red roses had come from, grown impossibly quick between the last time Ranboo had taken this route.

Or how a single one of those roses—which Ranboo thought was the biggest, most beautiful blossom of them all—rested comfortably in Dream’s left hand, brushing against a silver band in the shape of an arrow.


End file.
